A Time for Legends
by Andrea Colt
Summary: one shot. A trucker has an encounter that changes his world view sometime shortly after all hell has broken loose.


A Time for Legends

_Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine, mores the pity. Also, while Cuervo, NM is a real town, I've never stopped there, though I've blown past it more times than I could count. If there really is a Maggie's Diner it's purely a coincidence. _

**A Time for Legends**

I'll never forget the day the world changed. It didn't change suddenly, and I guess I can't really narrow it down to one day, but the moment I realized that the world was a far more complicated place than I had ever imagined is etched into my memory as clear as the day it happened. I'd been hearing stories for weeks before that. Truckers love to talk and the taller the tale the better. But the stories were getting darker and darker. There were whispers of ghosts and evil doings, and things that sane people don't believe in. I didn't believe all the talk, and I couldn't understand why everyone was passing around such stories and it was months yet to Halloween. I didn't yet know that the world had changed. I was only just hearing the opening rumbles of thunder before the storm.

In the little town of Cuervo, New Mexico there is a little diner. Maggie's Diner is probably one of the best kept secrets in America. I've been driving these highways for going on three decades now, and Maggie's serves the best omelets and frybread in the country. And she's got the best coffee and the prettiest smile this old truck driver has ever encountered. I've been trying to convince the old gal to marry me for the better part of ten years now.

I stop in for breakfast twice a week on my weekly run from St. Louis to LA and back again. It's one of those towns that time has forgotten. Cuervo sits on a potholed and crumbling remnant of old Route 66 just off of I-40 somewhere west of Tucumcari. I'm one of the regulars at Maggie's, and listening to the gossip there is better than listening to one of those old radio shows. Nothing much ever changes in Cuervo, and that's one of the things I love about the place. It's like an oasis in a chaotic world.

The day that I will never forget started out pretty much as usual. I pulled in at my usual time, and parked in my usual spot. I sat in my usual seat, and Maggie served up my usual breakfast. The only thing was as unusual was that Floyd wasn't there yet. He was usually sitting at the end of the counter nursing a cup of coffee and complaining about something. On this particular morning it was just me and Maggie, and a tall young man with too long brown hair sitting at a booth near the door. He was hunched over one of those little laptop computers and seemed to be completely absorbed in whatever he was doing.

A few minutes after I took my regular place at the counter the door opened and Deputy Sheriff Coleman sauntered in for his morning coffee and pancakes before his shift. All we were missing was Floyd.

"Mornin', Cole."

"Mornin', Hank, Maggie. How's life treating you" He pulled up his regular stool at the counter next to me and Maggie poured him a cup of coffee.

"Oh, I can't complain." Maggie smiled.

"You never do, Maggie, and that's why I love you." She laughed and I launched into a story about some wreck I'd seen out in LA on the 10, and how it had fouled up traffic worse than usual. I was just getting to the good part when the bells over the door jangled and the door banged off the wall. All of us turned to look as Floyd, normally cool as a cucumber, rushed in looking all upset.

He made his shaky way to the counter, "Coffee, please, Maggie, and if you've got any of the good stuff back there, make it Irish. I need it this morning. You folks will never believe what I just saw."

"Now, Floyd, you know I don't have any alcohol here, and you shouldn't be drinking before noon, anyway. Now why don't you have a seat and tell us what's going on that's got you so shook up." She patted his hand comfortingly. That's Maggie. She has a heart as big as Texas.

The kid in the booth perked up a bit. I could tell he was trying to listen without looking like he was listening. When Cole had come in the young man had turned himself just a bit so his back was to the Deputy. I didn't much like that, so I was keeping an eye on him.

Floyd took a huge gulp of his coffee and nearly choked as he burnt his gullet. He spit and sputtered for a minute, then launched into his tale. "My Martha asked me to stop by St. Matthew's this morning to pick up the casserole dish she'd left there after the ladies' social this weekend. When I got there, Father Murphy was arguing with that new junior priest. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but it was hard not to overhear." He took another sip of his coffee, going slower this time. His hands were shaking. "They were arguing about Jed Turner." Floyd put his cup down and rubbed his face before continuing. "Father Murphy… I know this sounds crazy, but hear me all the way to the end… he was saying that Jed was possessed."

I caught a quick movement out of the corner of my eye and I turned to see the young man with the laptop looking up at Floyd. He looked away again and tried to pretend he wasn't listening.

Floyd continued his tale, "The new priest, I never can remember his name, he was arguing. He was telling Father Murphy he was crazy, and that they couldn't just go accuse someone of being demon possessed without proof. Now you know that Father Murphy is usually a calm man, but his dander was up this morning, and he just wasn't listening to that wet-behind-the-ears young man. He said that if proof was what was called for he'd show everyone proof. Father Murphy stormed straight over to the baptismal font and used his coffee mug to scoop up a cupful of holy water. He grabbed up his liturgy and stormed right out of the church with that young priest following and yapping at him like a puppy at his heels. Well, I wasn't sure what was going on, but whatever it was I figured it was going to be too good to miss. I really wish I'd minded my own business."

Floyd paused to take a breath and dove right back in, "The Father made a bee-line for Granger's Co-op. Jed Turner was inside, and he was buying _fertilizer_." Floyd emphasized the word like it was something scandalous.

"And what's wrong with buying fertilizer?" Maggie asked, confused.

"Have you ever known Jed Turner to do any gardening? He was buying _a lot_ of fertilizer."

That got Deputy Coleman's attention, "How much fertilizer, exactly?"

Floyd stopped to think, and I could see the gears grinding. I rescued him before he burnt something out in his brain from trying to think too hard. "You can question him when he's done, Cole. Let the man finish his story."

Floyd shot me a grateful look and went back to talking in his mile-a-minute way. "So Father Murphy marches right up to Jed and flings the cup of holy water right in the man's face. Now, I expected yelling and cursing, but I never in a million years would have dreamed what I saw happen. Steam started rising off of ole' Jed, and his face started to bubble like the priest had just flung acid on him."

The kid in the booth lost all pretense of minding his own business. He was leaning closer with a look of intense concentration on his face. But all he was doing was listening, and considering the tale Floyd was telling I couldn't blame him for wanting to hear more.

"Jed started to yell and gibber, and Father Murphy just took charge. He told me and the junior priest to grab him and hold him. George Gregg was there with his two boys, and it ended up taking all five of us to hold Jed while Father Murphy read some Latin. Now I don't know much Latin, but I'd bet dollars to donuts he was reading an honest to God exorcism. Jed started twitching and cursing and saying awful things and flopping around like he was having a seizure. He started talking in some language I've never heard before, and I kept expecting him to spin his head around and start spewing pea soup. Then the Father finished up his praying, and Jed's head flung back and this horrible smelling black smoke just poured out of him and up toward the ceiling, then it swirled around and started being sucked down into the ground. When it was all over everything was silent. Jed was just laying there blinking up at us. He had no idea what had just happened. George and the junior priest were helping Father Murphy get Jed over to the church, but I just high-tailed it out of there. I didn't want to have anything else to do with demons and such. And if you don't believe me just go down to Granger's and see for yourselves. Everybody there saw what happened." Floyd glared at us all like he was daring us to call him a liar.

"Oh my goodness, Floyd. Please tell me you are pulling our legs." Maggie was shocked.

"I'd better get down there and see what went on." Cole grabbed his Smokey Bear hat off the counter and put some money down to pay for his untouched breakfast. He nodded to Maggie and me and headed out. Cole was a man of few words, but he had a level head on his shoulders. I had no doubt he'd get to the bottom of whatever had happened down at Granger's.

"Hank, you believe me, right?"

I took my time answering. Not too long ago I would have dismissed Floyd's story as a bunch of hogwash, but after what I'd been hearing on the CB over the past few weeks… "Floyd, I think what you saw is something a man would have to see for himself to believe completely, but I do believe that you saw something."

"You know, Betsy Taylor was in here yesterday, and she had a wild tale, too." Maggie offered up, thoughtfully. "Now, Betsy is a good, sturdy girl, not prone to flights of fancy. She and I grew up together, and I'd know if she was yanking my chain. She was dead serious when she told me this." Maggie leaned on the counter like she does when she's about to share a juicy piece of gossip, "Now, when we were girls we used to cut through Old Man Johnson's back yard to get home from school. He was a crotchety old cuss, and he'd chase us with a pitchfork if he saw us cutting though his property, but it was faster to cut through than to go around. Now he's been dead for nearly thirty years, but Betsy swears up and down that it was him that chased her the other night. She said she saw a light in the old farm house. No one has lived there for years, and it's supposed to be empty, so she went to see if it was teenagers goofing around so she could shoo them out of there before someone got hurt. That old place is falling down, it's a death trap. She says she was about halfway across the yard when Old Man Johnson just appeared in front of her with his pitchfork and chased her off the place."

I noticed that the long-haired kid was jotting notes as he listened. I decided then that he must be a reporter, but now I don't think he was at all. I think he had quite a different reason for being interested in the crazy stories that were flying around the diner that morning.

"Maggie, I've been hearing stories like that one, and like the one Floyd here told all week. It's almost like Hell has opened up its doors and flung loose all its inmates." I shuddered with a sudden chill.

Just about then I heard gravel crunching out front as another car pulled into the parking lot. I looked out the window to see the prettiest classic Chevy I've seen in a long while. I'm pretty sure it was an Impala, and it was all sleek and shiny black with lots of chrome. The young man in the booth saw it too, and he flipped his laptop shut and gathered up his things. He left in a hurry, meeting the man who'd gotten out of the Chevy halfway to the door and talking excitedly with him. They both got back in the car and tore out of there like the Devil himself was after them.

I finished up my breakfast, and I had to get back on the road. I had a schedule to keep.

Now driving a truck is a lonely life, and in the wee hours of the morning when those white lines start to lull your eyes shut you get the hankering to talk to someone. That's why the CB radio is a trucker's best friend. I'd been listening to mine, and I got a wild hare and I keyed up my mike and started to talk. I told the story that Floyd had told me, and I told the story that Maggie told. Drivers started to come back with other tales about things out of nightmares. I was starting to feel like the world was a pretty dark and scary place when someone came back with a different type of story. This one had a couple of heroes and a happy ending. As I crossed the country I started hearing more stories about these heroes. They were stories about two young men in a classic black Chevy who would roar into town and start asking odd questions. Soon after they arrived, the ghosts would disappear, never to trouble the locals again.

Those stories bounced around the highways from Snoqualmie Pass to Alligator Ally, and they grew with every telling. I didn't know how much of it I believed, but I couldn't shake the memory of that earnest faced young man in the diner, and the black Impala he and his buddy had driven off in.

The next week I stopped in at Maggie's for breakfast as usual. Deputy Coleman was there already, and as I came in he was telling Maggie about what he'd found out at the old Johnson place the night before. It seems someone heard gunshots out that way and called them in. The tipster said it sounded like someone was firing off a shotgun. Coleman had been in the area so he was the first to respond. There was no one on the abandoned property, but he did find one unfired shotgun shell laying in the yard. Odd thing was it was loaded with rock-salt. After asking around the neighborhood the only other clue he got was that one of the neighbors had seen two men leaving the area in a big black car.

I listened, but I kept my mouth shut. I was putting the pieces together, and I was coming up with quite a story. Now, I don't know for sure what's going on out there, but I know that there is a legend growing. We're living in dark times, darker than they were just a few weeks ago. I don't know the why or the how, but monsters of lore are loose amongst us now. I hear tales of them everywhere I go. But I also hear tales of hope, of two young men taller than Paul Bunyan, and better shots than Wild Bill and Annie Oakley put together. The legend is growing larger than life because people need hope in these dark days. What brings me the most hope isn't the stories, though. It's the focused look on that young man's face as he listened to Floyd's wild tale. I'll never forget that young man, or the other, older man, or the shiny black Impala that took them off to save the world.


End file.
